


Between the Sheets

by WolfAndHound_Archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Marauders' Era, Smut, porn without plot/plot what plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:51:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5924005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfAndHound_Archivist/pseuds/WolfAndHound_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unfounded worries performance lead to greater revelations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Sheets

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Lassenia, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Wolf and Hound](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Wolf_and_Hound), which was created to make stories posted to the Sirius_Black_and_Remus_Lupin Yahoo! mailing list easier to find. However, even though I still love the fandom, I am no longer active in it and do not have the time to maintain it. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in December 2015. I posted an announcement with Open Doors, but we may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Wolf and Hound collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wolfandhound/profile).

‘Many receive advice; only the wise profit by it,’ it said. And automatically I added, ‘between the sheets.’ 

I’ve always found fortune cookies to be a bit silly. The fortunes were too general, too simplistic for me to find any sort of connection to them, just like the horoscopes printed in newspapers. That is, until my boyfriend told me about the secret, invisible phrase that is at the end of every fortune - “Between the sheets.” He said he learned it from his brother or his cousin or someone several years older. I’m sure he’s pulling my leg, and he hasn’t really imparted some sort of family wisdom to me. All I know is that it’s truly amazing how many fortunes suddenly make a lot more sense with that phrase tacked on. 

See for yourself. Here is a sample of recent fortunes from cookies I’ve cracked open.

‘Fulfillment requires sleepless nights.’

‘A wise man applies himself to important tasks.’

‘Appreciate the gifts others bring to you.’

‘You will soon find what you need.’

Adding the phrase ‘between the sheets’ makes them much more personal, no? Logically, I don’t believe in fortunes. But, for some reason, I tend to think about them more, now that I know the secret.

‘Many receive advice; only the wise profit by it, between the sheets.’ 

So, is my fortune merely making a general comment about the wisdom of paying attention to the requests, suggestions and demands of one’s lover regarding one’s activities in bed? Or is this truly a cosmic message sent to subtly let me know I might profit by asking my lover to critique my performance?

We’ve never really discussed this. Well, most of the time I’ve been too busy shedding my own garments or tearing the clothes off him to pause to offer suggestions. Really, it’s like being trapped in a Muggle dryer. Shirts, pants, underwear, all flying about the room in a textile blizzard while we’re busy tumbling onto the nearest suitable surface - the bed, the desk, the floor, the window seat, and, on one memorable occasion, the Slytherin dining table in the Great Hall. Who has the time or inclination to indulge in some sort of clinical assessment of sexual prowess?

And, besides, neither of us has a problem reaching screaming, gut-twisting orgasm or bringing the other to howling, muscle-clenching ecstasy. We’ve never failed to get it up. The problem is more in keeping it down, especially when others are about. Thank God for school robes. With a slight shift of posture, one can generally hide whatever flag-waving, stand-at-attention activities one’s privates are engaged in. Of course, there was that morning when we had kissed and groped and generally fired each other up just before Transfiguration. And McGonagall had called him to the front of the room to demonstrate transfiguring a quill into a banana. He had handled it successfully, but when the Professor started to talk about expansion and size and asked the class to note how the quill had swelled nicely into a plump, rigid fruit, his eyes had half-closed, hiding the fevered glitter of his arousal. His body vibrated like a tuning fork. I almost creamed in my underwear watching him act all cool and collected, when I knew exactly what was going on in his crotch. McGonagall was either completely oblivious, or she earned honorary Marauder status by her ability to keep a straight face.

But, I can’t help but worry sometimes. He’s more experienced than me. Does it bother him when I’m the aggressor? Am I adventurous enough? Submissive enough? Do I enter him too abruptly? Do I touch him the right way? When he fantasizes about sex, am I the one he’s thinking about? Should I ask or leave well enough alone?

~ **~** ~ **~** ~ **~** ~ **~** ~ **~**

On Saturday, we’re safely hidden away in a little cove on the far side of the lake. We’ve been here since early afternoon. It was actually hot enough for a swim, although I found the water too cold to stay in for long. He has a much higher tolerance for cold than I do and he also swims like a fish, so he amused himself in the water while I let the sun dry me off.

Now, I’m lying on the blanket, reclining against a grassy hillock as he leans back against me. His slim hips fit perfectly between my spread thighs, his head rests on my shoulder, his cool, wet body causes me to shiver slightly. Water trickles from his hair, meandering along the contours of my skin. His nipples are still hard and erect from the frigid lake. I run my finger slowly, delicately around the puckered flesh, barely touching him. I gently scrape my nail across the pebbly hard bud, pressing in at the center and withdrawing, letting it spring back to meet my finger pad. I shift my hold on him slightly, so both my hands are free to tease these magically sensitive little dots. They simply demand to be pushed, manipulated, aroused. 

He is silent. Motionless. Open to whatever I want to do to him. Isn’t he? My hands stop suddenly.

“This is okay, isn’t it?” I try not to sound paranoid.

“Am I complaining?” His voice is drowsy, satisfied.

“No, but, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if I wasn’t doing something you wanted or if what I was doing bothered you?”

My tone of voice alerts him to my uncertainty. He turns over, still lying atop me, propped up on his elbows so he can focus on my face. 

“What are you worried about? You’ve never done anything that bothered me.” His lips quirk up on one side into that lopsided smile that tilts his features awry in a way that always makes me want to kiss them back to aligned perfection. “Besides, you take direction very well.”

I’m thrown for a second, not knowing to what he’s referring. “Direction?”

“Yeah, you know. ‘Harder, faster, do it now.’ That sort of thing.” He’s openly grinning.

“Shut up, you idiot,” I snort at him. I try to explain, but immediately get tongue-tied. “All I meant was, since you’re more, um, you’ve done it, I mean, you know, had sex with a bunch of other people, that I don’t want to…I mean, I do* want to know what you like…And, you’d tell me, right?”

His expression becomes more bewildered the longer I babble. I stop, feeling a blush spread across my cheeks. He places his hands on either side of my face. One thumb runs lightly along my lips, back and forth. The fingers of the other hand play with my hair. His eyes light up with realization.

“Do you think, for some outlandish and inexplicable reason, that you don’t measure up to people I’ve slept with before you?”

So baldly stated, it sounds needy and faintly ridiculous. I nod anyway.

He shakes his head, puzzled by my worries. Now it’s his turn to stutter, to my surprise. “You, sleeping with you, is like nothing I’ve ever…It’s never been…with anyone else…it’s never been this…This good. This hot. This all-consuming. All I want is you, to feel your hands on me, to hear you moan, to be inside you. To feel you inside me. No one else ever made me feel like this. I love you, you know. That makes all the difference in the world.”

He means it. I notice that his lashes are still wet, stuck together in spikes. They’ve formed dark rays surrounding his eyes, like the points of stars. How appropriate. I reach up one hand to run a finger along the star-tipped lashes. He doesn’t blink.

I grasp his sodden hair, pulling him down for a kiss. Our mouths meet, open and searching. My tongue slides past his, as we each seek the warm wet inside each other. My arms and legs tighten around him, imprisoning his body against mine. His hands still hold my head and all his attention focuses on my mouth, on kissing me, on searching out every hidden nerve in my cheeks, my palate, my lips.

I moan into his mouth at what his tongue does to me. My hips tilt up, meeting the downward push of his pelvis. I’m getting hard and I can feel his cock next to mine, the friction of them rubbing together sparking a deeper arousal. We’ve got to get rid of our bathing trunks. I release him, just long enough for us hurriedly fumble our way to complete nudity, twisting and kicking the annoying bits off. His hungry eyes rake down my body and come to rest on my cock, as does his hand. His grip is cool and hot at the same time, his flesh still chilly from the water, yet warm from the blood surging through his veins. I arch towards it, wanting its pressure, its constriction and the tactile acrobatics of his agile fingers.

He releases me, and twists as easily as an otter underneath me, pulling me close for a kiss. “Want me up or down?” He voice is sultry, laden with the moist heat of desire. I can’t trust myself to speak, so I grab him, clutch his hips, my fingers seizing on the twin arcs of bone, pushing and pulling to turn him. Face down now, his back a marvel of tone and texture. Already the afternoon sun has banished the pale pallor of winter, tinting his skin a pastel rosy tan. I touch him, my hands running down from his shoulders to his ass. I’m compelled to follow that path with my tongue. An electric rippling shudder under his skin accompanies me. He tastes pure, like the lake, like clean, fresh water. 

I kiss him, right where his spine meets the swelling curve of his buttocks. His legs spread, slowly, almost luxuriously, inviting me to take him. Fumbling for the lubricant, I manage to drop the tube several times in my haste. After what seems an eternity, my fingers are anointed and I slip one into him, slowly and carefully. It disappears, swallowed into his body. I press a second finger inside, fascinated by the way his body seems to engulf them both. I rub gently back and forth, easing him open, searching for that small gland. I find it and hear a long, low moan sigh from him. His body moves in slow, curving, graceful undulations. I’m amazed that I have the power to do this to him, with the simple stroking of my fingers. And the only sounds are the deep breaths we both expel, his tinged with the growling hum that I only hear when we’re like this. 

I’m aching for him now. I don’t want to wait. I can’t wait any longer. My fingers slide out and he whimpers my name at the loss. That quiet sound runs screaming along my nerves straight to the root of my sex. He wants me, offers himself to me. I grab onto a surge of raw, sexual power, hold it in check, not wanting to hurt him. I know I do; I know he feels a sharp, sweet pain as I fill him, a pain that melts seamlessly into pleasure. 

My panting breath is the music that accompanies the rhythmic thrusts of my body. He meets me, thrust for thrust. My mouth savors his skin, seizing on the supple bend where shoulder curves into neck. I see his fingers clutching the blanket, the knuckles white. I slide one hand around him to grasp his hard cock, feeling the rivulets of moisture leaking from the tip. I stroke him, both of us moving to the same tempo. He bucks beneath me, wanting, demanding more. Inarticulate moans pour from his lips, urging me, begging me to go deeper, faster, harder. I give him what he wants, my teeth gnawing at the thin, delicate tissue of his neck. I hear him, pleading or commanding. I’m no longer sure which…”Mark me…Claim me.” I bite, tasting the coppery rich blood that springs from his flesh. 

Oh, nothing else in the world feels like this. We are fused into one being. There is only one heart, one consciousness, one soul. The sweet, uncontrolled rush of power and sex roars through my veins and sends me hurtling off a cliff, not to certain destruction, but to soaring invincibility. I explode into him, my cries catching in my throat, a thousand bolts of lightning searing through my brain. And, underneath, almost hidden in the depths of my soul, I feel him, Moony, my other self, flex his muscles and arch his back and toss back his head, howling with inarticulate joy that, after so many years alone, he has found his mate…

“Remus?”

Did I hear my name?

“Remus?”

Again, a softly insistent voice calls me back. The blinding light in my brain fades and I start to regain my sense of here and now. “Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes. Oh, yes, I’m fine.”

“You sounded almost like you were in pain.”

“No, I was…I felt…so connected to you. Like there were no boundaries. No space in between. No separate skin and bone. We were one and complete.”

My logical, ordered mind reasserts itself and I’m suddenly aware that I’m mumbling all this to the back of his head as he lies patiently still beneath me. Somehow, it seems rude. I shift off to one side and he turns to look at me, his eyes alight with warmth and love and something else. A deeper wisdom that says he understands what I’ve been saying because he feels it, also.

He pushes my tangled hair away from my eyes. “Moony knows too, doesn’t he?” He asks solemnly.

Slowly, I nod, realizing the truth of his insight. With a heady, spinning feeling I’m hit with the life-changing importance of this knowledge. I’ve chosen a mate, a life companion, someone who can bridge the human and canine with me. I know I can no more tear him out of my heart than I could live with my heart torn out of my body. 

His fingers caress along my cheek, soothing and warm. “I guess you’re stuck with me forever, love.” He kisses me, a kiss that means many things. A promise, an affirmation, a gesture that marks the moment when everything changed. It’s glorious.

We curl together, contemplating this new revelation. We talk, and touch, and sometimes, simply stare at each other. For some reason, I remember my unease about the meaning of my fortune cookie’s message, along with its lascivious addendum. Suddenly, it no longer matters.

END


End file.
